


Gunshy

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Barebacking, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Gunplay, Public Sex, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fatherless blondes with something to prove are John's favorite kind of poison.</p><p>(Jo is a teenager, age unspecified.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunshy

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Gun Play" square on my spnkinkbingo card.
> 
> Title from [Liz Phair's Gunshy.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84iwS9IGBqw)

What does it say about John's life that the sound of gunshots on a Tuesday afternoon barely piques his interest.

  
It’s five o’clock somewhere but definitely not in central Nebraska. He's already drinking anyway, just beer. The boys are at Bobby's and there's nothing needs killing today.  John rolls his shoulders and slides a buck onto the bar.

  
  
The few beams of light brave enough to penetrate the dust streak the Roadhouse in late morning sunshine, or is it early afternoon?  John rubs at his eyes.

  
  
Sal Moskovic is slumped over the same table he'd occupied all last night. He snores like a bear but he's a decent enough guy, for a hunter.

  
  
Another three shots in rapid succession perk his ears up. Someone's got a vendetta against the local wildlife or a twitchy trigger finger.

 

He’s imposing on Ellen’s perfunctory hospitality as is, leaning on the crutch of Bobby’s phoned-in good word.  She doesn’t owe him a kind word after what happened and he’s lucky if he gets eye contact any more.  If he were a smarter man he’d sneak out before she fixes him with another one of those withering stares, the kind that can twist a man up like an old bar rag.  Poor thing doesn’t realize John’s got nothing left to wring out for her.

 

Another shot rings out, tight with frustration.  That’s not Ellen out there, rumor has it she’d shot a Budweiser out of Merle Linstromd’s hand not three weeks ago.  John narrows his eyes at the back door and heads outside.  
  
Her hair's up in an afterthought of a pony tail, shoulders squared as she levels her dad’s old Glock 17.  Her grip’s good but her stance is off, too narrow.  John traces down her legs, tomboy tan and freckled with mosquito bites.  She’s wearing a faded old shirt and a pair of cut-off shorts that would temp a far, far better man than John.

 

“Heard the local empties are running a real menace around here.”

 

He folds his arms over his chest, grins at her as she wheels around and aims dead at his chest.  Her father never would’ve stood for such poor trigger safety but John just bites his lip.

 

“Shouldn’t startle a girl with a gun.”

 

“Shouldn’t go pointing something you can’t use.”

 

Her nostrils flare, jaw jutting forward and she just looks prettier.  She’s got the best of both her folks, Ellen’s doe-bait eyes and her daddy’s long, long legs.

 

“Fuck off, old man.”

 

Fatherless blondes with something to prove are John's favorite kind of poison.

 

“Let me help you, girl.”

 

She’s still bull-dogging her jaw but she lowers her gun, and that’s close enough to a yes for John.  He turns her around to face her tin-can enemies.

 

“You’re getting too tense.”

 

He molds himself against her back, too close already and he’s about to get a kick to the nuts or a soft sigh.  Her breath leaves her in a rush as he traces his hand down her arm.

 

“Deep breath, just like that.”

 

He breathes in over her shoulder, moving in until every inch of him is pressed against her.  She follows him, her back swelling against his chest as she takes a deep inhale.

 

“Out.”

 

He purses his lips, letting his breath tickle over the top of her head.  He could pick her up with one arm.

 

“Just like that.”

 

He crouches down to her line of sight.  Her shirt’s rolled up to the elbows and her skin is so, so soft as he traces down to gently guide her hands to aim.

 

Most girls tremble when John gets this close but Jo’s stock still, hands up and steady and her daddy really would be proud of her.

 

“One more time.”

 

He breathes in deep, drinks her in, cornflower blue and sun-bleached Sunday best.  She smells like something he doesn’t deserve to remember.

 

“Breathe out and…”

 

She squeezes the trigger and John gets a little hard.  She nicks the can but it’s not the dead shot she’d wanted.  She huffs with frustration, a hundred pounds of fury backing up against him.

 

“Again.”

 

Good girls shouldn’t play with guns and John should’ve bit it in her daddy’s place but here they are.

 

“Spread your legs.”

 

“If you’re lucky.”

 

She flirts like a kick in the teeth and John’s more than a little hard now.  She graces him with a look over her shoulder, blue eyes flicking up as the corner of her sweetheart mouth tickles at his beard.

 

“I was born lucky, sweetheart.”

 

He noses into her neck, greedy for her scent while his hands find the firm give of her breasts.  She sucks her breath in, a little hiss that snakes down around his leg and sinks its fangs into everything he hates about himself.  He’s damn good at this, popping her buttons open with one hand as the other trails down the soft plane of her stomach.

 

He can feel the warmth of her pussy through her shorts.  Harvelles are all hot-blooded.

 

“Gonna take more than that to get me off.”

 

Her arms are still up, elbows locked tight even as her legs spread a little.  He slides his fingers past her fly, down to the edge of some panties he’d bet his life are worn-thin cotton and too good for the blood on his hands.  She’s wet.

 

“Not a fucking virgin,” she growls, her voice straining as he tucks into her and circles his trigger finger over her clit.

 

“Think you know about getting fucked ‘cause you let some schoolboy stick his dick in you?”

 

“You here to teach me something or keep talking?”

 

There was a time when John was made for better things than this.  He buries his face in her hair and shoves her shorts down her colt thighs.

 

“Get on your knees.”

 

Her panties have little sunflowers on them, barely visible from too many loads of her mama’s bleach.  She clicks the safety back in place before she reaches back to start tugging them down with one hand.

 

“Keep ‘em on.”

 

He tucks them to the side and she’s golden-haired everywhere, damp-darkened and pretty.

 

“I’m on the pill.”

 

Girls weren’t like this when John was in high school.  He’d thrown a box of condoms and a prayer to every major deity Dean’s way and hoped for the best years ago.  John doesn’t have any condoms.

 

“Good.”

 

John gets his pants down just enough to get his cock out, holding himself hard. Elastic pushing her candy-store pussy out like a gift from God, John strokes one finger through her lips and sucks it into his mouth until he can’t stand it any more.

 

She feels as sweet as she tastes, wet like a peach and tight like a pinky-swear.  He’s big but she can take it, muttering _motherfucker_ under her breath and trembling just that bit that gets his cock leaking.

 

John tugs his overshirt off, a blue-green flannel he’d stolen back from Dean two towns ago.  The Nebraska sunshine splashes picnic-pleasant across it as he spreads it out on the grass in front of her.

 

Pulling her back with his fingers digging into her hand-span hips John sighs, watching a tendril of blonde hair shake loose over plaid.  She’d always liked picnics.

 

A shake of his head and he’s back, buried balls-deep in his old friend’s babygirl while he grabs his gun and tosses it in front of her face.

  
  
"Strip it."

  
  
"What?"

  
  
"Strip your gun."

  
  
He gets a hand in her thick hair, yanks back enough to make her snarl.

  
  
"Now, girl."

  
  
"You're inside me," she hisses, tugging against his hand as she tries to glare back at him.

  
  
"Think it's hard trying to flush a backed up glock while someone's trying to make you come?"

  
  
He buries deep, where she's wet and willing under all that snarl.

  
  
"Try doing it while something's trying to rip your throat out."

  
  
He snakes two fingers down the front of her panties, circling around his cock inside her to catch some slick before he glides over the eager bundle of her clit.

  
  
She catches her moan between her lip and her teeth as she slides the magazine out.  She's not as quick as Dean and she's nowhere near as careful as Sammy but she's stubborn as shit. She gets the piece open and dumped on his spread-out shirt with a smirk and a squeeze of that jailbait pussy that would kill a less seasoned sleaze bag than John Winchester.

  
  
"Happy?"

  
  
Up on her elbows, fingers gun greased and her hair fuck messy she growls, shameless, the thrill of death and danger so close getting her wetter than any man ever will. It's John's fault, this feral girl, this wild thing he orphaned years ago.

  
  
He bends over her back, beard bristling against the baby hairs on her neck.

  
  
"Get it loaded and knock off three of those goddamn cans or I'm not pulling out."

 

She curses his name as she snaps her piece back, a sentiment he wholeheartedly agrees with.  She whines each time he fucks into her but she doesn’t stumble even as she pops the spring back into place and locks it up.

 

John closes his eyes and pulls her back onto his cock.

 

_Bam._

_Bam._

_Bam._

 

“That’s it, darlin’.”

 

She nails each one, riding the recoil back to slam into him.

 

He hitches his hips up and grinds three fingers over her clit.  John’s a bastard who should’ve swallowed the end of that gun she’s holding years ago, but he never finishes first.

 

He hauls her up to hear her come, drown in it, store it away for those nights when sunflowers and sun-sweet girls turn to ash in his mouth.

 

“Come inside me,” she pants, still gripping up around him like she means it even if she shouldn’t.

 

John growls as he comes, loads her up until there isn’t an inch inside her he hasn’t stained. She’s all honey-drip when he pulls out and Christ, she’s gonna soak right through her panties before she even makes it back to her room.

 

He’d pull his teeth out to get his mouth on her but she’s already groping for her shorts and shuffling her hair back up.  She balls his shirt up and tosses it at his chest as she rises onto forced-steady legs.

 

“My mama’s gonna be back soon.” She drawls it, long and teasing, eyes alight with the kind of mischief you love until the world throws real trouble in your lap.

 

He can still taste her in his mouth and it’s enough to keep the sickness from crawling out of him.

 

She tucks her daddy’s gun into the back waist of her shorts and watches him stagger to his feet.  His knees crack and he makes that grimace he swore he’d never live long enough to make.

 

She’s close enough to kiss, to wrap up in his arms and pet and promise that everything’ll be alright.  John folds his arms over his chest.

 

“Next time you stay, John Winchester, you be sure to leave your door unlocked.”


End file.
